At the beginning of this semester, THE 434 began compiling a List of Things To Do Before We Graduate which we have taped to our wall. You know, for motivation and to give me a reason to get out of bed on Sundays. Some of them are fairly normal and not worth talking about (#57 See Rice Baseball Game) and some I’m still not sure how we’re going to complete (#1 Meet Beyonce, #87 Steal Colleen Lamos’ Dog, #25 Get a Squirrel In the Room), although Bova has devoted her post-recital semester to the latter. She says she’s touched one when it was hanging out on the Wiess prison bars and looking the other way, but so far that’s the only development on that front.
However, last week we did complete #86: See a Psychic. We wanted to find a cheaper one so we first tried to google psychics in Houston. None of the web addresses listed were active and all of the phone numbers we tried to call had been disconnected. Clearly they knew we were looking and were trying to fly under the radar. So we decided it would be easier to just drive down Montrose and, behold, nestled amongst the tattoo parlors and adult novelty stores, we found a sign for $10 palm readings.
I had to park on a strange side street and we had to clamber through the underbrush to reach the door, so I was already fairly certain we were going to be paying with our souls/turned into mice/eaten as per every fairy tale I have ever read. The truth was less dramatic. We ended up sitting at this woman’s kitchen table while she peered at our hands and told us what diseases we probably wouldn’t have to worry about while her husband talked on the phone in the background about his insulin. Bova and Rob got off easy with three children each; I, however, am apparently doomed to have SIX children, four of them being two sets of twins. I assume all named Bridget, as per the prophecies of Rob. For a palm reader, she wasn’t very good at looking at hands; I was certain she would notice my engagement ring and say something like “You’ve already found your soul mate” as if this were some startling mystic prediction. Instead:
Gypsy Woman: What’s with this man you love who doesn’t know he loves you yet?
Me: Ummm… he asked me to marry him. So I think he knows.
Gypsy Woman: Aha ahhh! (smoker’s laugh) He’s your soul mate. A good person, but lazy. You are clearly in charge.
Me: Clearly.
Apparently I will live to be 91 and Rob will be 84, which means in the future we give up our idea of a murder-suicide pact at 28 to avoid getting old. Which seemed like an okay plan freshmen year, but now, as a senior, seems startlingly close. On the plus side, this will make list item #62: Senior Citizen’s Party! all the more easy to accomplish/ironic. The point is to dress in lumpy sweaters, eat Worther’s butterscotches and play Bingo. Clearly fun on a bun.
PS… I now have a working FAQ! Finally! A place to answer all of the questions you Frequently Ask Me!